Amy Jones

Grace Poem by Amy Jones

She was the youngest of 8 kids in a German Mennonite family.She went to UBC and she teaches grade 4.We don’t like to talk.

No words come to mind to describe her.I don’t know what she is.And I don’t know who she is.

She is not friendly.She is not pretty, Although she used to be.She rarely cooks dinner and deliberately answers the phone in a whispering croaky voice so people will think they’ve woken her.

She’s not funny, And she’s not healthy.Learning details about her lifeBefore meIs like removing porcupine quills once they’ve already formed hooks inside your skin: She’s not giving.

She once gave her husband an address book for Christmas, he told me.They’ve been divorced for 17 years.

I’ve seen her be other things, Assume other, more likable personalities.With her friendsWhen they make her leave her hermit-like existence of devouring half a dozen novels a week.In her classroomWith the 20-odd children she entertains5 days a week.In her high school yearbookAnd all the lovesick signatures in its front coverWith my older sisterWho has always had the loud talent of wrenching her open.

No matter how many times we talk and for a moment feel so closeOr how many favours I’ve taken for granted from herThese are the things that stick out When someone asks me about my mother.